in which kim taehyung was an artist in search of a muse for his upcoming gallery collection, and jeon jungkook was just a pretty boy who worked in a coffee shop.
______
"am i really that pretty?"
"oh my darling love, there is no such painting that...
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"𝒊'𝒍𝒍𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒑𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘, 𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒊'𝒍𝒍𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒃𝒆𝒅."
[𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲]
the rain pattered softly against the windowpane, its rhythmic melody filling the room with a sense of tranquility, mixing beautifully with the soft hum of the jazz that played from the radio of taehyung's art studio.
the argist's heart felt heavy as he sat alone in his studio, surrounded by the remnants of his unfinished paintings. the silence that enveloped him seemed to echo the emptiness he felt inside, a stark reminder of the void that had been left behind by jungkook's painful absence.
taehyung sat in an armchair chair by the window, a cup of steaming lemon tea cradled in his hands as he watched the gentle droplets cascade down the glass with a soft, absent gaze in his honey eyes.
it was raining again, a common occurrence in november, he knew. but unlike the usual comfort he found in the sound of rain, today it only served as a reminder of the storm raging within his mind.
he couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness that had settled in his chest ever since that fateful night at the gallery. try as he might to bury his emotions beneath layers of indifference, the ache in his heart refused to be silenced.
each raindrop that fell seemed to echo the turmoil swirling within him, a poignant reminder of the tears he had shed in the solitude of his own thoughts. he had tried to push jungkook from his mind, to bury the memories of their time together beneath a facade of indifference.
yet with each passing day, he found himself grappling with the harsh reality that jungkook had been scared off by his confession. the thought cut deep, a painful reminder of the vulnerability he had allowed himself to feel in the presence of someone he had grown to care for deeply.
and in responce to this vulnerability, jungkook had... slipped from his fingers.
he ran from him.
but as much as taehyung wanted to deny the truth, he couldn't ignore the signs that his muse had been avoiding him. the missed calls, the unanswered messages—they spoke volumes, leaving the dark haired man with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
for he didn't want to believe that he had scared the younger man away, didn't want to accept that his feelings had driven a wedge between them. but he wasn't naive either; he knew that his confession had changed things, irrevocably altering the dynamics of their relationship as artist and muse, and now friends..
he knew that he had ruined it by confessing.
but no matter how hard he tried, the artist couldn't shake the memory of his muse's soft smile, the warmth of his laughter, the tenderness of his touch. they haunted him like ghosts, lingering in the corners of his mind no matter how fiercely he tried to banish them.
